Fallen Man's Praise
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: It could be the end of the world it probably is, but Sam doesn't quite know how to care.


Title: Fallen Man's Praise

Summary: It could be the end of the world; it probably is, but Sam doesn't quite know how to care.

A/N: This is four Fairy Elle in round two of the SFTCOL(AR)S Summer Fic Exchange. It's not quite what she requested, but I hope it comes close enough.

A/N 2: Thanks to Gem, sendintheclowns, and Tyranusfan. They were all large parts of making this fic what it is. This takes place post AHBL part 2. This isn't exactly an upbeat fic, but I tried to take into consider what we knew of Sam's place spiritually (in a very vague sense) and the rage we saw in killing Jake. This also relies someone on the insight gained from Dean's near death experience, the conversations with Molly in Roadkill, and even to some extent what we saw in Home with Mary. I hope it's believable :)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

-o-

_You give me hope, and hope it gives me life  
You touch my heavy heart, and when you do you make it light  
As I exhale I hear your voice  
And I answer you, though I hardly make a noise  
And from my lips the words I choose to say  
Seem pathetic, but it's fallen man's praise_

_And life is now worth living  
If only because of you  
And when they say that I'm dead and gone  
It won't be further from the truth_

-from "When I Go Down" by Relient K

-o-

They're performing some kind of cleansing ritual on a farm just outside of Bloomington, Indiana. There's some chanting that must be done, of course, but it's mostly carvings on perimeter of the property, which is wide and vast, laden with gentle slopes and green grass. The blue farm house must be a hundred years old and sits in the shadow of a tree just as old in the far west corner.

Sam thinks it's probably pretty beautiful, but he really can't tell. Everything exists in shades of gray to him, monotone and flat, as though there is no life left in the world. He knows there must be color, there must be vitality, but he has no way of seeing it.

It doesn't matter anyway, not for the task at hand. He and Dean are taking alternating fence posts, carving the symbols into them. It's a bit tedious, but demonic attacks are not exactly something to mess around with.

This is what they do, anyway. Help people, save lives. Especially now. Now that the Demon's dead, it's kind of all that's left to keep them in the game.

Well, that's not true. Sam stays for Dean. Dean stays because he only has a year left to live and he just wants to keep doing his part, just like he always has.

Sam's carving is deep and jagged, and he barely notices that he's yanking his knife through the wood haphazardly until he cuts too far and slices deep into his finger.

It's the blood that stops him, surprises him into stopping, watching as the red wells up and pours out, dripping over his hand, staining the wood a rich and vibrant hue.

He's staring at it, blankly, the knife still tight in his uninjured hand.

"Dude," Dean says.

Sam looks up, the same blank stare on his face.

Dean's forehead creases and he goes to Sam's side, reaching out to touch him. "What'd you do?"

Sam's mouth is dry and he grimaces. "I cut it."

"I can see that, genius," Dean snaps, but Sam can hear the concern in his voice. "This looks deep. We're going to need to get some stitches in it."

"It's okay," Sam begins, but stops when Dean levels him with a glare.

"We're going back," he says, insistent.

All of Sam's defiance is gone, and he can deny his brother nothing. "Okay," he says dumbly, and lets himself be led away from the fence and toward the house. Dean shrugs out of his flannel overshirt and wraps it hard around Sam's hand. Sam just stares at it, feels the distant throb of blood against the pressure of the fabric, and is suddenly surprised that he is capable of bleeding.

You have to be alive to bleed, and Sam Winchester should be dead.

-o-

It could be the end of the world; it probably is, but Sam doesn't quite know how to care.

Bobby and Ellen are rallying every hunter they can finds, using every resource they know, and they're going to fight this thing, head on. Dean's all over that one, and Sam's just kind of along for the ride. He tries to be more than that, to be helpful and useful and productive, but he just doesn't know how anymore. He just doesn't have it in him. It takes all his energy just to keep breathing.

The Demon's dead--it's _dead_--and all his quests for vengeance have dried up faster than all his dreams of normal. They can do anything now, anything at all, no strings attached.

Well, except for the ones tied to Dean's life.

But that's not even the really cruel part of it all.

The cruel part is that Sam needs to stop it, and he doesn't know how. The cruel part is that Dean wants to die for him, and he can't even feel alive.

-o-

_Some kids grow up saying their prayers at night, kneeling at the edges of their beds, fingers entwined, praying for protection._

_Sam grows up with salt lines around his bed and the constant feeling that something was out there, something big, something terrible, and all Sam has to protect him was his father and his brother._

_They say they'd do anything for him, to keep him safe._

_But he wonders if they'd said the same thing to Mommy before she died._

_He isn't allowed to talk about Mommy. He isn't allowed to be afraid._

_Sam can't stop himself from either._

_"Dean," he says one day when they're alone, when Dad's out doing something without them, the way he so often does. "Do you think Mom's an angel?"_

_Dean's eyes narrowed. "Why would you think that?"_

_"Missy in school today was talking about her grandmother," Sam explains, without telling Dean that he doesn't really know what a grandmother is. "And she said that even though she died, she knew her grandmother was happier now, in heaven, watching over her, like an angel."_

_Dean's eyes go cold and icy and his jaw clenches. "Missy doesn't know anything."_

_Sam opens his mouth to protest._

_Dean's glare stops him. "Mom's gone, and that's that," Dean snaps._

_"But, Dean--"_

_"I mean it, Sam," Dean says with finality, slamming the remote control down on the coffee table before storming off to the bedroom._

_Sam sits there, his eyes stinging as though he's been slapped. He curls himself around a couch cushion, and wishes maybe Missy was right after all_.

-o-

At first, Sam sleeps like the dead, deep and undisturbed. He passes out on the pillow and doesn't twitch all night. It's a dark sleep, murky and hollow.

It's a strange feeling, so different from how he usually sleeps, and it leaves him feeling nauseated in the morning. He swallows hard against it, and has to give up coffee.

"You okay?" Dean asks, sipping his own coffee with bleary eyes.

Sam winces and holds back the urge to gag. "Yeah," he says. "I'm fine."

"You want one of those girly drinks you used to get?"

"What?"

"You know, the Starbucks kind," Dean clarified.

Sam blinks, tries to remember, but it's so distant that it's almost like a past life. "No," he says finally. "I'm fine."

Dean doesn't believe him--he has no reason to. But Dean doesn't do anything--there's nothing he can do.

-o-

Dean tries to act like nothing is different.

Dean laughs, Dean smiles. Dean hunts, Dean jokes.

Dean is Dean. Dean will always be Dean, even in hell, Sam's sure of that.

That's just a Winchester way. Pretend long enough and it goes away.

"Dude, did you see her?" Dean asks at lunch one day.

Sam looks around at the half-empty cafe. "Who?"

"The waitress," Dean hisses with a suggestive nod toward the register.

Sam looks again and sees long, tan legs, a sliver of skin above low slung and clinging jeans.

"Not bad, huh?" Dean says, grinning madly.

Sam remembers to shut his mouth and turns his eyes back to the table. There's a plate of food in front of him that he doesn't remember ordering. The fries taste like cardboard.

"Maybe she has a friend," Dean says, in that same suggestive tone he always uses.

Sam just shakes his head and fiddles with the burger on his plate.

"You even alive over there, Sammy?" Dean asks suddenly.

It's not harsh but it grates on Sam and he flinches. He turns his eyes worriedly up at Dean before he realizes Dean was joking. "I...yeah, I...I mean," Sam stammers.

Dean raises his eyebrows.

Sam licks his lips. "Sorry, I'm just tired."

Dean nods a little, a bit dismissively, and Sam can see his brother thinks he's lying. He tries to pull into himself and manages to put a fry in his mouth. He would gag on the blandness if he could remember how.

"These fries are amazing," Dean says from across the table and Sam can see Dean's already devoured all of his.

Sam looks back at his, a little surprised.

He knows Dean's about to say something, about to say anything, but the waitress saunters back up, and Dean's all smiles again.

Sam sits in the booth and tries to remember how things used to be, back when things were normal.

-o-

Sam sees dead people. He's no Haley Joel, and Dean 's certainly no Bruce Willis, but he sees them all the same. They both do. They see them, hunt them, send them on their proverbial ways.

Growing up, Sam never thought too much about it, about where spirits went. There were always bigger issues to worry about, like staying alive, like getting out. But after their mom in Lawrence, after Molly, after all the talk of deals and soul-selling, he couldn't help but wonder. Because Dad's dead and Dean's going to die and Sam may still be evil, and Sam needs to know. Needs to believe.

His wondering had been hopeful, necessarily so. There had to be a heaven for Mom and Jess and for all the good people of the world to go. There had to be a heaven so he could see them all again, so he could finally be saved.

Redemption has to exist; it does. Even Dad found it, in the end, and Sam remembers the smile on his father's face, and wishes that would be enough to keep him afloat.

It's not.

His wondering is gone now, replaced with a deep dread. Because Sam doesn't just see dead people, he doesn't just usher them quietly to the other side. He is one, or he should be.

He was dead for three days, cold and stiff and dead, and he doesn't remember hope or a bright light or anything.

Just pain and nothingness. Then waking up to the worst hell he could ever imagine.

-o-

_Dean's quiet when they leave Wyoming. There's not much to say, Sam supposes, not with a host of demons from hell to contend with and the little fact that Sam should be dead and that Dean's going to die in a year._

_Sam wants to be mad, wants to chew Dean out, but he doesn't have the heart._

_Because he understands why Dean did it, even if it was all wrong, and Sam doesn't have it in him to be mad at his brother for his weakness. Sam knows what it's like to be afraid, what it's like to risk anything for someone he loves. Maybe he wouldn't have made a deal, but he would have done something._

_And Dean would have been worth it._

_Sam knows his brother's biggest mistake was dying for him. Dean might die for many reasons, but Dean's life for Sam's--that just wasn't a good deal. Not for a murderer tainted by demonic blood._

_Dean doesn't know that yet, and Sam hopes he never knows it. Dean doesn't seem to regret what he's done, Dean almost seems at peace, and Sam's not sure he wants to take that small solace from his brother._

_Sam stares out at the flat countryside and feels like his soul is stretched as thin as the dull blue sky. There's a vast loneliness in that and he feels like he could effuse into it, if not for Dean, if not for his brother that keeps him barely tethered to this world, this life._

_He remembers Jake in the cemetery and that feeling of hatred that overtook him and wonders if he has a heart at all anymore. He wonders if the Demon was telling the truth, that he came back wrong. He knows demons lie, but this one likes to tell the truth because it hurts more than any lie ever could. Maybe it's just one last parting gift to the Winchester family. Screwed up once, screwed up forever._

_He glances at Dean, who is sitting same as always in the driver's seat. Sam takes some solace in that, and lets his brother's vitality wash over him._

_Sam wants to forget, wants to remember, wants to know why he pulled the trigger, why he can hardly feel anything resembling remorse at the feeling of Jake's blood splattering on his face._

-o-

His dreams return, but, like everything else, they're not the same.

Sam's always dreamed, vivid, terrible dreams. Dreams of monsters and deaths, of futures and nightmares. His dreams are winding stories, realistic and terrifying, and too often true.

But Sam's never dreamed like this.

His dreams now are black and white and gray, muted tones of nothingness. He wanders through expansive darkness that has no beginning, no end. He is lost in it, not afraid, not safe, just lost, a feeling which shakes him to his very core.

The dreams are nothing more and nothing less. They don't wake him. He dreams them all night long, from the moment his eyes close to moment they open, he is held in bondage. His sleep leaves him more tired, and the cycle repeats night after night.

Sam doesn't let Dean see. Dean only has a year to live, and Sam doesn't want him spending it worrying about Sam. Dean's already wasted enough of his life on that.

-o-

Sam kills a black dog by emptying an entire clip into it. He fires the shots in rapid succession, all with deadly accuracy.

When he's done, guts and body parts are flung wide, leaving the corpse mangled and unrecognizable.

Dean's shaky on his feet, holding his arm as he teeters close to Sam. Sam can hear his brother swallowing hard.

"You think you used enough bullets there, Butch?"

Sam feels his heart flutter, his arms tremble. He's still holding the gun in his hand, the metal warm in his dry palms. He knows he should say something, but all he can think of is _no_ and he's pretty sure that's not what Dean wants to hear.

"Sammy?"

He puts the safety on the gun and tucks it in his pants. "We have to burn it," he says, and starts to move toward it.

Dean's hand is on his arm and Sam tenses with the contact, freezing as he meets Dean's gaze.

Dean's completely out of his element, scared for him, scared of him. "Sammy," he says again, soft and desperate, probably pleading. "What's going on with you?"

If Sam knew, he'd tell him. But he doesn't know. Instead he looks away. "We need to get this done," he says, moving past his brother.

This time Dean doesn't stop him, and that makes Sam want to cry.

He wants to, but he can't.

-o-

It's hard to feel now. It's hard to care.

Sam spends a few weeks trying to, trying to be like he was before, but he's failing--badly. It's all he can do to keep from letting it show to Dean.

"Do you want to stop for lunch?" Dean asks, on the road between two places Sam doesn't even know the names of.

Sam shrugs.

"You didn't eat breakfast," Dean notes, and Sam wonders how his brother remembers when he can't. Then he wonders why it even matters at all.

"I'm not hungry," Sam says.

That elicits a glance from Dean, short and meaningful from the driver's seat. "You're going to waste away, Sammy," he says, and Sam can hear the worry in his brother's voice.

Sam smiles as best he can. "We'll stop then," he says, willing his brother to believe him. "The next town we see."

Dean clenches his jaw, just for a moment, and his fingers go white on the steering wheel before he turns up the stereo and drives on.

-o-

Sam can't remember what they're hunting. A spirit of some kind, but he doesn't care about the details. The hows and whys mean nothing. He just wants to find the bones, torch them, and move on.

He's not hunting to save the world. He's not hunting to save anyone--anyone except Dean. Every spare moment, every spare second Dean will grant him, he spends looking for ways out of the deal.

Dean lets him most of the time, with small looks of disapproval when he thinks Sam looks too tired, when the desperation becomes impossible to hide. But Dean knows this has to be done. Dean knows that the price for Sam's life wasn't just Dean's soul, but a year of Sam's life as well. There will be no rest, no reprieve until it's over.

Sometimes, Sam believes that's what's wrong with him, why he feels the way he does.

Most of the time, Sam knows it's so much more.

-o-

_When Sam meets Jess, she takes him to church. Not all the time, but consistently enough, and she even likes to pray before meals. She keeps a Bible and a rosary in her bedside table, and a small, simple crucifix adorns the wall of their apartment._

_"It makes me feel safer," she tells him, all smiles and innocence and beauty._

_"But isn't that why you have me?" Sam jokes, leaning in to nuzzle her neck._

_She giggles and tries to pull away half-heartedly. "You may be able to fend off a mugger," she says, "but not even you could save my soul."_

_"Who says I'd want to?" Sam whispers, running his hands under her shirt._

_She turns into him, letting their lips meet for a kiss. She laughs a little between kisses, light and breathless, before she drives herself up into Sam, taking them both down to the warm sheets below. _

-o-

Sometimes, in the darkness, in the encompassing sea of blankness, he hears a voice. It's soft and melodic, and calls him forward. He doesn't know what it says, but he can feel it deep within him. So he stumbles onward, grappling, stumbling, hoping.

He wants to hurt, but his limbs have no feeling. He wants to cry, but he's not even sure he has eyes to water anymore. He's devoid of sensation, devoid of life, devoid of self, devoid of everything but the voice that calls to him.

He's not sure how, but he keeps moving.

-o-

Bobby calls them about twice a week and keeps them informed of the bigger picture. Demonic signs, possessions, strings of mysterious deaths. The normal people of the world are finally taking notice, but aren't sure what to make of it.

Sam would have probably noticed before. He would have noticed their scared, uncertain looks, their edgy, skeptical stances. His heart probably would have shattered in empathy for all of them.

He can barely even see the anguish anymore.

"It's unbelievable," Dean says one night. They're parked just outside of town, in the parking lot of a deserted gas station. The town in the distance is small and quiet, barely illuminated by a dozen dusty, faint lights.

Sam squints up at him in the twilight. "What?" He knows that the town is being stalked by some kind of demon--he knows that much from the cattle mutilations. But at this point, cattle mutilations aren't exactly unusual occurrences.

"These people," Dean says. "What they've lost, what they're losing. They're terrified."

Sam feels a pang of surprise, and something else--something he almost remembers. It's sympathy, and it makes itself known in a burning behind his eyes. "They think they're going to die," he says, more logic than feeling, but the emotion is almost there.

"There's not much worse, though," Dean says. "Than living in fear."

Sam feels the emotion die in his heart, sinking back within the nothingness. He smiles a little, and wonders if that's how Dean's living.

"Maybe," he concedes, but doesn't mean it, because he knows that real torture is the absence of everything.

-o-

The darkness is thick and weightless all at once. It nearly chokes him, but when he reaches out to push it away, he finds nothing.

Then he wonders if he even has a hand to swat with.

It's a paralyzing sensation, and he is powerless to resist the darkness as it erases his body, his heart, his mind, his soul. He is nothing, he is becoming nothing, he is as empty and expansive as the darkness that he's wandered through.

_Sam_, someone says, someone far away. _Sam._

His mind rebels, resists. He knows that voice. It's familiar, so familiar that it hurts. He can feel his loss radiating through him and he's too tired for that.

_Sam._

It's louder now, and he realizes it's talking to him. He just wants to disappear, just wants to be done, because he can't do this anymore.

"No."

It takes him a moment before he realizes that he's actually spoken.

"No."

He's not sure how he's speaking or who he's speaking to, but he feels the ache in his vocal chords.

_Sam._

The voice is closer, nearer, and he has a sense of self again. His mouth, his tongue--stiff and dry and parched.

_You're so close, Sam_.

He tries to talk, to cry, to scream, to whimper, but nothing happens and all feeling fades.

_You're so close_.

But never close enough.

-o-

Sometimes he forgets what he's looking for. He's searching so hard, so constantly, that sometimes he blinks and looks at a website and can't remember what it's for, what he's doing, who he is.

"Sammy," Dean's voice cuts through it, and Sam jerks, and it comes flooding back.

"Yeah," he says, breathless and relieved.

"You doing okay?"

He isn't the one with only seven months left to live, but he doesn't say that. Dean doesn't let him say that. Dean seems happy, now, almost at peace, and if Sam had it in him, he would be mad at that. Mad that his brother can rest while he dies. Mad that his brother sold his soul and condemned Sam to the same fate he was escaping.

"Yeah," he says, and his heart skips a beat with the lie. The act of deception, the physiological response--it makes him feel human. "I'm good."

-o-

_When Jessica dies, so does her Bible, her rosary, and the little crucifix on their wall._

_But it doesn't make Sam stop believing. Sam doesn't know how to stop. It's simply not possible. He has to believe, for her, believe that she'd been right about it, that somehow she's in a better place._

_That was when he took to praying, just like she had, just like Pastor Jim had taught him._

_He prays every night, looking for redemption, for hope._

_Every night, to try to find her again._

-o-

The darkness is still there. It overtakes him without a fight and Sam feels powerless, too weak to even want to escape.

It's the kind of desolation that makes him too gone to even want to get out. Instead, Sam accepts.

_Sam. _

Almost.

_Sam._

Why does he know that voice? Why is it so familiar?

It could be nothing. Nothing but a figment of what little mind he has left.

The darkness seems to intensify, to grow, to render him nearly incapable of thought.

_Sam._

The voice is warm, true, love.

Love.

He knew love once. He knew a lot of things once.

_Sam. Fight it, Sam. Fight it._

He doesn't know how, and he wants to say that, wants to tell it.

_You can._

There's something here with him. He's not alone.

It's like someone has doused him with cold water and all the hairs on his skin stand up at once.

He smiles, mostly because he can.

-o-

"He was such a good man," the daughter says, her hands entwined, her teeth on her bottom lip. "He really was."

She's looking at them, earnest and true, and Sam can hear Dean stifle his snort. "I'm sure he was," Dean says, and even Sam feels like it's flippant.

She doesn't notice, not really, just smiles sadly, and looks away with tear-filled eyes. "You'll make it right?" she asks.

Usually, Sam doesn't say much of anything to anyone anymore, but he's speaking before he thinks. "We'll let him move on," he says. "That's what all spirits want. A chance for closure, a chance to rest. They just don't know how to get there."

He can feel Dean stiffen, clearly surprised by Sam's words, more than he's strung together in months.

The girl looks up at him, strangely hopeful. "Where do they go?" she asks. "When they leave this place?"

"Someplace better," he tells her with a certainty he didn't know he possessed.

That's all she needs to hear, and she tells them the cemetery and plot number.

When they're back outside, Dean just stares at him. "Dude, what was that?"

"What was what?" Sam asks.

"That whole thing with the daughter. That spirits go to a better place." There's a hint of accusation in his voice.

Sam shrugs. He doesn't really have an answer. "We know there's a hell. We know there's a bright light. It kind of makes sense," Sam says.

Dean doesn't look so sure, but doesn't say anything, and Sam's relieved. Because he's not sure he could ever explain to Dean that he's pretty sure because he almost made it there himself.

-o-

_"You know who else had faith like that? Mom."_

_The words are such a surprise, so needed, so foreign, that Sam almost doesn't hear the cynicism in Dean's voice._

_"She told me every night that there were angels looking out for me."_

_Angels, Sam thinks, not even angels were enough._

_"There were no angels looking out for her," Dean explains, and Sam's heart threatens to break._

_He wants to tell Dean something different, to change Dean's mind, to make him understand, but it seems like Dean is beyond hope._

_Sam wonders when he will be, too._

-o-

This time, there's no one there. There's nothing there, and Sam loses the will to move.

He is nothing. There is nothing. He feels his awareness fleeing, and this time, he finds no motivation to stop it.

_Sam._

He tries to ignore it, to close his ears to it. He doesn't want to hear. It's always the same and never enough.

_Sam, get up_

He manages a grunt and sinks deeper into himself.

_Sam, you don't belong here._

He doesn't care. He can't care. He's tired. He's already mostly gone.

_Sam, I can help you. We can help you. Come on, baby._

He knows the voice. He knows it.

Is it possible?

Could there be more?

He wills himself to move, to act, to do _something_, but he doesn't get very far.

_That's good_

His brow furrows and he tries to make sense of that.

_Find me, Sam. Find us._

He's not sure what he thinks will happen, what he even wants to happen, but it has to be better than this.

-o-

Sam's spent most of his life in this car that it's almost a part of him. It's as familiar as his own heartbeat, as snug as his own skin.

At least, it used to be.

Now it feels foreign, distant. It makes him feel small and separated.

He feels the rumble of its engine, the thumping of the tires over uneven pavement, and wishes he could feel as alive as it does.

The radio is playing and Dean turns it up suddenly. "Dude, I _love _this song," he says.

Sam listens, tries to hear the music in the resounding nothingness that echoes between his ears.

Dean's singing now, perfect and on key and enthusiastic. "I'm not a man or machine, I'm just something in between. I'm all love, a dynamo--so push the button and let me go."

Sam gapes a little, watching the smooth movements of his brother's head as he bobs it in rhythm with the music. Dean's so alive, so vibrant, so at ease. So comfortable.

Dean smacks him lightheartedly. "Come on, man," he says as the music builds to the chorus. "Even you know this one."

Part of Sam wants to, can almost feel the rhythm like Dean does, and he knows he should. He knows he needs to because Dean's scared of him, worried about him, and he feels the distance between them.

Because Sam isn't acting like himself. He's aware enough to know that. He doesn't speak or eat enough to count. All he does is sleep and perform rote actions.

Dean's singing in earnest now, drumming his fingers on the wheel and speeding down the highway. "Touch that dial--turn me on. Start me like a motor, make me run--Lovin' every minute of it."

And Sam can't speak, not even for Dean, and he wishes he could. Dean's so alive, and Sam aches with envy.

-o-

Sam knows these dreams aren't just dreams. They're not flashes of the future; they're snippets of the past. Of his past. Of the past he can't remember. The past that Dean tried to erase with a kiss and a demon.

The yellow-eyed demon had told the truth--what's dead, should stay dead. Dean knew that, probably knows it now better than ever, but it's done now. It's a done deal and Sam can't get out of it, no matter how much he wants to. He's _alive_ and suicide would be like spitting in Dean's face. He loves his brother too much to do that.

It's not that he wants to die, because death scares him. The blackness of his dreams leaves him empty and broken and so desolate that he wishes he could cleave his soul in two and let the pieces whither away to nothing.

But he feels half dead, as though his spirit isn't completely his anymore, as if the demon did a crappy job of fitting his soul back in his body.

Sam doesn't know what happened to his soul in the interim, but he can feel the tears in it. He feels his humanity leaking out of him as though he never had it to begin with. Maybe pieces of him are missing, maybe pieces are just broken, but he doesn't feel whole anymore.

The colors are all faded, the emotions are all blunted. He's living half a life on borrowed time.

And he wants to remember more. He wants to remember why. He wants to remember something good, something pure, something holy. He wants to remember the voice and who it was and if he ever found it.

_Hope's kind of the whole point, Dean_.

He may have prayed every day, he may have looked for reasons to believe, but he knows he just did these things because he's not very good at believing, not at all, no matter how much he wants to be. He's just finally weak enough to believe it

-o-

"Where are you?"

Sam doesn't wait for the voice, not this time, because he can, because he knows he can. He's spent too much time here, too much time in this nowhere, and he's ready to move on.

"Where are you?" he tries again and tries to squint, tries to see, tries to elicit any response from the darkness.

But this time there's nothing, a heavy nothingness that eats into his soul. He almost starts to cry.

"Please," he says, he begs, he pleads. He'd go to his knees if he knew how, if he still had knees.

It has to be out there, something has to be out there. This can't be everything. This can't be. He knew something else once, he knew love once, he knew safety. It exists. He believed once. Maybe he can again.

"Hello?"

There's a tickle of sensation, as faint as the wind on a still day, but it's enough.

Sam sucks in a breath and tumbles forward.

It's hard and suddenly his body feels real again, with weight and mass and life. His feet ache and his muscles are strained. Everything hurts and it's hard to breathe. He's wheezing like an old man and moving like one, too.

Then he sees it. Something. Light. Just a speck, but he can feel its warmth calling to him, beckoning him.

The pain is welcome, the pain is everything to him, and he keeps going.

-o-

Sometimes Sam wants to kill everything around him. Sometimes he sees evil, supernatural, human, anything, and just wants it to be gone. He wants to eradicate it, annihilate it, demolish it. He doesn't want any of it left because it is wrong, it's an abomination, it doesn't _deserve_ to live.

Sam's always been a little used to blood--it just goes with the territory--but when he finds himself drenched with it, it's Dean who thinks things are off.

"Dude," he says, and his voice is strained, trying to be light. "You killed that thing with your bare hands."

Sam doesn't really remember that, but the blood is hard to argue against. It coats his hands, seeping under his nails and deep within his nail beds.

Dean's look falters and Sam sees the fear and doubt.

He wishes he could say something to make it better. But he doesn't know what to say. Dean thinks maybe he created a monster.

Sam thinks maybe he was one all along.

-o-

They exorcise a demon in Sacramento and Sam realizes then that Dean's going to hell.

The realization is enough to make him want to cry, and he holes up in the bathroom while Dean flips channels, shaking with it all.

Dean's not just dying, he's going to hell. Dean's going to hell for him.

And he doesn't know how to stop it.

That can't happen. It's worse than Dean dying.

He can't let his brother go there, not for him, not for anyone.

He's almost hyperventilating.

Then he remembers Jess and her crucifix. Mom and her angels. Dad and the bright light.

There's a heaven.

He likes to think Mom's up there, Jessica too, even Dad now. That they could all see how hard he tries, how badly he wants to make this right. He likes to think that they'd all forgive him, that they'd keep him pure. That they'd save Dean.

Dean would say it's a fantasy, Sam is pretty sure of that, which is why there were some things he keeps to himself.

Five minutes later, he goes back out and opens his laptop.

"You can take a break, you know," Dean says, glancing at him from the bed.

Sam licks his lips. "No," he says. "I can't."

-o-

_Sam stops the car on a quiet road in the middle of the night. The air is cool and crisp, but the tension between them sparks like fire._

_"I don't understand the blind faith you have in the man," Sam says, just like he's thought all his life. He's tired of putting his trust in people that fail him, people that hurt him. He trusts the things that matter, the things that make the universe work, things that represent his mom, Jessica, goodness._

_"It's called being a good son," Dean replies, quick and easy, and Sam's heart stutters._

_He's spent a lifetime being the bad son, the lesser son, the other son. He knows this. It shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't, but it does. It hurts to hear _Dean _say it._

_But Sam doesn't have any tears, not now, so he gets mad instead._

_He's moving outside, popping the trunk, and Dean is coming after him. "You're a selfish bastard, you know that?"_

_And Sam does. Sam's selfish enough to believe in something that gives him hope, something that makes him feel whole, and right now, he doesn't give a damn. "Yeah, well, this selfish bastard's going to California."_

_He's not sure if he expects Dean to stop him. They're both proud men, stupidly so, and when they stand off, neither caves. Sam sees the Impala disappear into the fog and doesn't remember to breathe until the rumble of its engine has faded into the night._

_He loves his brother. He just wishes Dean would trust him as much as Dean trusts his father. He just wishes that he could be worth following for once._

-o-

They travel without speaking, they move without communicating. There's nothing to say. There are no jokes to crack, there are no promises to elicit. They're fighting against things they can't escape, and Sam knows that's all there is.

The inevitability of it makes him want to throw up.

Sam is beginning to wonder if there is no solution, no way out of this situation.

Sam can't live without his brother. Not now. Not anymore.

Sam doesn't even know if he's human without his brother.

He can't do this.

The laptop holds no answers. None of his contacts will spend on time on something as insignificant of one person's impending doom. No one probably trusts him, anyway. They don't all know the whole story--Bobby has more discretion than that--but he's sure everyone can tell. No no says anything, but he can see it in their eyes, the way they look at him, like he's somewhat less than human.

Then again, they're probably right about that.

Because he can tell. He can see it in the emptiness in his eyes when he looks in the mirror.

And it's too much.

The reflection is too much. He doesn't recognize himself. He sees no life behind his eyes. His face looks old, vacant, devoid of anything and everything. He's already dead. Dean will die for nothing.

He's crying before he even remembers what tears are. By that time, it's overtaking him, strong and fast and Sam goes down without a fight.

He doesn't know where Dean is, he just can't remember. But he's glad that Dean's not here to see this.

Sinking to the ground, he curls into himself and sobs, heavy, hard sobs, so fast, so furious, that he can't even breathe.

He can't see and his lungs burn, craving reprieve.

Sucking in a breath, he finds more fuel to cry harder.

He doesn't know how long, but he doesn't care. When the tears finally taper off and his breathing is just ragged heaving, he closes his eyes and hugs his knees tightly to his chest and feels better than he has in months.

-o-

He sees the light when he dreams, and it almost makes him angry. That it may have been there all along and he couldn't see it. That he was so close and didn't find it.

But as he gets closer, he forgets his anger, forgets how to even feel that kind of emotion at all.

_Sam_, voice says and it's closer now, all over him, covering him.

He can see again, he can see his own body, naked below him. His skin is bathed in light and he watches the bruises fade from it, the scratches heal. He chokes on emotion.

_Sam_.

Peace washes over him. "Mom," he says even though he can't see her. He doesn't have to.

_Yes, baby_ she soothes and Sam closes her eyes and can feel her hand ghosting over him.

"Where am I?" he asks, keeping his eyes closed, relishing her closeness.

_You're almost home_, she says.

"How are you here?" he asks. "In Lawrence--"

_Hush_, she says. _You will understand_.

"But--"

There's another presence suddenly, a younger one, a fresher one. _He never could listen very well_.

He sobs outright, shamelessly. "Jess."

_Do you believe, Sam?_

He's not sure who's asking the question, it's all becoming one. He'll believe anything, everything. This place, this feeling--it's so real, so right, so _good_.

The light intensifies and for the first time, he understands salvation.

It's almost over. He's almost done.

A second before eternity, the whole thing crashes down.

-o-

He comes to with a strangled gasp, feeling as confused and alone as he had in the cabin.

Tears are in his eyes and his heart is pounding. He looks around him in the darkness and sees Dean undisturbed on the bed next to him.

He was dead.

That's old news by now, but he finally gets it.

He died. His spirit left his body, nearly left this world, and he knew death.

He had thought it was so simple. He had thought there were rules, there were ways things were done, there was order in the universe.

Sam was wrong.

There's no real rhyme or reason to why spirits go bad. It has nothing to do with who they are, with how much they love the people still on earth, with how much they love the people who have gone before them. It's a random mix of chance and uncertainty, bound together with the pain of losing the safety net of mortality, of knowing what comes next, of predictability, of stability, of familiarity.

Maybe, sometimes, there's a conscious choice to hold on, and Sam's not sure if he would have or not. He's not sure what it would have been like to hover over Dean, to watch his brother grieve without him.

But then again, maybe he is. That's what now feels like.

Then--then was the darkest thing Sam had ever known. Then was a period of sheer misery, of being lost, of being tortured. He died a violent death, one he wasn't ready for, and his soul hurts because of it.

Sam wonders what would have happened if he'd have stayed dead. If he'd have followed his mother, followed Jess to some greater unknown, or if Dean would have called him back.

Dean hadn't been there, though, not in the darkness. Sam wonders if he should feel guilty about that, if he's the lesser brother for it. Dean sold his soul for him, and Sam was ready to cross over.

There are no answers. There are no rights, there are no wrongs. This has nothing to do with how much Sam loves his brother, or how strong Sam is.

This has to do with the reality the Sam died. That Sam has been touched by death, claimed by death, and no matter what demon puts him back in his body, he can never escape that.

He settles back into the bed uneasily, trying to quell his fears. He doesn't close his eyes, doesn't dare close his eyes. He's seen enough darkness in his life.

Suddenly he misses it. He wishes he could go back.

But that's not an option. That's not even the point.

His mother, Jessica--they weren't there to take him away from Dean. They were just trying to take him away from the darkness. Sam had been fighting for his soul, and they were saving it, they were helping him save it.

Maybe they were helping him save it for this. So he could come back and save his brother.

It's a stretch, he's sure, but he can't deny the peace that settles over him. His eyes drift close to the sound of his brother's breathing and the sense that for the first time in a long time, he's not alone.

-o-

Sam doesn't dream.

The rest of his sleep is solid and sound.

When Dean wakes him up with a cup of coffee and a doughnut by his bed, he is surprised to feel his stomach twinge with hunger. He sits up tentatively and eyes the doughnut.

It's glazed with some kind of filling. Sam takes a large bite and cherry filling seeps into his mouth, tasting better than anything.

He eats it in three bites and doesn't realize Dean's watching him until he's licking the bits of glaze of his fingers.

"You like that?" Dean asks, trying to contain his amused surprise.

"Yeah," Sam says slowly. "One of the best doughnuts I've ever had."

Dean nods to the bag on the table. "I bought an extra one," he says. "It's all yours."

Sam hesitates for a moment, because he knows Dean bought that one for himself. But he can see the glimmer of hope in Dean's eyes, can feel as it matches the one somewhere deep within him, and knows that this is good.

-o-

It's another bumpy back road to another nowhere small town. They're cruising at an easy 55 and the windows are down to the sunny day. The breeze is strong and Dean's been tapping to the beat all morning.

"You can turn it up, you know," Sam says, watching his brother with a hint of amusement.

Dean looks surprised, turning to his brother curiously. "Usually that just gives you a headache."

Sam shrugs, smiling a little. "Dude, you love this song," Sam says, reaching over and turning up the dial.

Dean's still watching him, a tad skeptically maybe, but as Sam bobs his head to the rhythm, a smile spread over Dean's face.

That's all it takes, and Dean is one with the music, one with the car, one with Sam.

Sam turns it as loud as it can go and listen to his brother screaming the words over the radio. Then Sam joins him, loud and off key, closing his eyes and just letting it go.

-o-

It's never easy. Sam kills a man in Reno because he's possessed and threatening his brother. But this time--this time Sam hesitates and hates the bullet the minute he pulls the trigger.

The man falls away from Dean, bleeding from a clean shot to the head, and Dean pants, looking up at him. "Thanks," he breathes. Then he looks at Sam, perplexed. "You okay?"

Sam shakes himself. "What?"

Dean nods at him. "You're crying," he notes.

Sam can feel the wetness on his face, the slight congestion in his nose. "He was a person, Dean," he says, though it's a bit unnecessary, a bit trite at this point.

Dean still looks confused, but still reassured. He straightens and moves toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, well, so are we," Dean replies.

Sam stands there and considers that. "Yeah," he says. "I know."

He can't help but be surprised at the certainty of his own voice.

-o-

_Sam's been wrong before, but it's never hurt like this._

_"I wanted to believe so badly."_

_It's the story of his life, the story of who he is._

_"That maybe I could be saved."_

_Because that's all he wants. All he's ever wanted. To be saved from hunting, from being second-best, from always being afraid, from himself._

_"You're just one person, Dean."_

_Dean is the only person left that matters._

_"I had to believe there was something else out there."_

_Something to save both of them._

_Dean thinks maybe he saw the will of God._

_Sam knows he did._

-o-

"I think we should take a break," Dean says, out of nowhere. He's completely nonchalant, slouched on a motel room bed, like this is a conversation they have every day.

Sam just stares at him. "What?"

"From hunting," Dean says. "Let's take a break."

"A break?"

"Yeah," Dean says, more enthusiastic now. He sits up. "A vacation. Just me and you."

"Dean, we could be fighting the apocalypse," Sam tells him plainly.

Dean sinks back down to the bed, sulking and quiet. "I just think it'd be nice," he mutters.

Sam's not quite sure what to think. This isn't like Dean, not at all, and it's making Sam nervous. "You haven't wanted to stop. Not once since..." Sam can't make himself say it, not at all, because there's just too much there.

A flash of pain crosses Dean's face and suddenly Sam understands.

"You want to take a break before you die," he deduces with an awful clarity.

Dean bristles, licks his lips. "There's only six months left, Sammy."

Sam doesn't know what to say to that. Doesn't know what to think. He wants to be mad, wants to get angry, wants to shake his brother and call him a selfish bastard for doing this to him.

He can feel the darkness suddenly, with a renewed intensity that scares him, and he nearly wants to cry.

But then he feels the light, the voice, _you're almost there_, and he just shakes his head. "No there's not, Dean," he says.

Dean's glance is scared, a bit resentful, pitying. "Sammy--"

Sam shakes his head, doesn't let him finish. "I told you I was going to save you," he insists. "I made a promise and I'm going to keep it."

The look of exasperation on Dean's face hurts more than just about anything. His brother doesn't believe him.

"Dean, I told you--"

"Sammy, come on," Dean interrupts. "I know you're trying, man, I can see that. But you can barely get out of bed some days. You're only here half the time. You fly off the handle. You're not yourself anymore. There's nothing you can do, Sam. I just want you to find a way to deal with this before I'm gone."

The words are everything Sam's thought about since his brother brought him back. He's seen the doubts, the concerns in Dean's eyes every day. But nothing prepares him to hear them. Nothing.

But this time, Dean's wrong.

"You can't lose hope," he says, trying to control the tremor in his voice.

Dean laughs a little at that, more than a shade skeptical. "You know I don't believe in all that out-there feel-good stuff," he says.

"Then believe in me, Dean, just for once," Sam says. _I can believe enough for both of us._

This makes Dean pause, makes his face freeze with a slow look of confusion. It's a long second before he swallows and nods. "Okay."

Dean's belief is so sudden, so unexpected, that Sam doesn't know quite what to do with it.

So he closes his mouth, presses his lips into a line, and says, "Okay."

-o-

When Sam is twenty-four, he dies a sudden and painful death. Maybe it isn't unexpected altogether, but that doesn't make it any easier.

He is dead for three days before his brother snaps and makes the worst deal of either of their lives.

Sam doesn't really go to heaven, but he doesn't really go to hell, and he figures he was probably somewhere in between, along with most of the lost souls he's come across in his line of work.

Three days doesn't seem that long, not really. But the problem is that eternity doesn't have time. It doesn't have place. It doesn't have all the earthly measures that make things relative and bearable.

It simply is what it is and that can be good or bad, depending on where you're at with things.

Sam was just a kid, really, whose mother died when he was six months old. He spent his childhood being afraid and feeling like he was never enough. He left home when he was 18 and fell in love when he was 20. His girlfriend died when he was 22 and his dad died when he was 23.

And the ways Sam sees it, most of it is his fault, because there was this demon who wanted him all along. Sam spent years thinking he was to blame, of being afraid of going evil, and all the demon really had to do was kill him and Sam finally couldn't fight who he was anymore.

Earth isn't hell, and it's definitely not heaven, but it's where he is now. His Mom's still dead, so is Jess and Dad and the Demon for that matter, but Dean's here.

Sam's not sure what he wishes would have happened or what he thinks will happen. He just knows he's _almost there_ and that _hope's kind of the whole point_ and that he'll find an answer, he'll find a way out of it because for the first time in his life, Sam's sure he's not alone.

-o-

He lies in the bed and listens to the sound of Dean's breathing. He lets himself drift, lost among the nighttime sounds--muted engines on nearby roads, crickets humming in the night, a neon sign flickering in its age.

Sometimes he remembers the dreams and the journey they represent.

His journey.

His death.

He can still feel it inside of him, dwelling in his lungs with a pneumonia-like hold. It encircles his mind, shadowing every thought, darkening every decision.

It's the darkness that's changed him, made him wrong, made him less than he was before.

But there wasn't just darkness.

There was light. There was goodness.

He remembers that too. As his mind shifts to it, he feels himself lightening on the bed, and his breathing eases.

He only had a moment, only a taste, and it is still the most desirable place he's ever been tempted with.

But he's here, on earth, next to Dean.

He's here to save Dean.

Dean may have made the deal, but maybe the demon wasn't the only one who wanted Sam to come back.

The popcorn ceiling is old and dingy and gray in the dimness. He studies it blankly, looking for some kind of answer.

There are no answers. Only the simple movement of air in and out, in and out.

He didn't come back wrong. He just didn't come back right.

But that doesn't mean he can't make it better.

With his next breath, he lets out a prayer, closes his eyes and wakes to hope.


End file.
